Loving the Knight: Book 2: Eryndal & Andrew (The Hansen Series: Rydar & Grier and Eryndal & Andrew)

by Kris Tualla

  “We’ll sup when you’re refreshed,” he said. “Knock on my door and I’ll escort ye down.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. Husband.”

  Ever since his moment of hilarity days earlier, Drew had lost his irritation with Eryn’s concealment of her condition. She couldn’t hide it forever, after all. And he had every intention of sleeping in her bed as soon as they reached Castleton. The married couple needed to act married, even if a few areas of their connubial relations weren’t settled as yet. Like being honest with each other. Or her being pregnant.

  Drew was well aware of his own deception. While he was completely truthful in telling Eryn she was charged with murder, he left off the little detail of her being proved innocent. Tomorrow before they arrived at the Bell estate, he would need to tell her. Perhaps their mutual omissions would cancel each other out and they could start anew.

  Without any shouting or feminine fists.

  As Drew settled into his accommodations, he found himself smiling. Their journey across England had proved much more pleasant than he anticipated. Riding side-by-side for much of the time, he found his conversations with Eryn interesting. His wife truly was intelligent, well educated and logical. He respected the way she thought. And she had a sharp tongue. Occasionally it pointed to him; more often it pointed to the assumptions his sex made about hers.

  “Why shouldn’t I be logical?” she challenged. “Women control the world, you know. We birth and raise the men.”

  He laughed at her words. But he had to admit silently that she was probably right.

  The only hard part of the journey was saying goodnight to her. She always invited him to her room with a smile that set him straight—and hard. But he always declined. After the first nights, it became a matter of principle for him. He would stick to his resolution one more night.

  Thank the Lord.

  Only one more night.

    

  Eryn rummaged through her bag, trying to decide which gown was the cleanest and most enticing. She simply had to get Drew into her bed tonight—it was her last chance before they reached the estate. Once there, how could she explain that they were married but not sharing a bed?

  And how would she explain the swelling in her belly? It was two months since Drew rescued her and bedded her so well that his seed somehow slipped past its barrier. Her belly rounded some already and soon her waist would thicken noticeably. And her breasts were becoming heavier.

  Drew’s words on their wedding night haunted her. Was she to become subjected to rumors that Geoffrey had raped her? That this was the reason she pushed the constable down the stairs? If she had only known of his fall, she might have been able to do something. If not to save him, at least raise the alarm instead of disappearing into the night. She certainly did look guilty when those bits were stitched together.

  And if Drew continued to avoid her bed, he all but pointed a finger and shouted that Geoff had truly done such a thing.

  “I’ll have to seduce my husband tonight,” she whispered pulling garments from her bag. She sniffed one gown, wrinkled her nose, and put it aside. “Not that I have any knowledge of how to do so.”

  The nuns who raised her left out that part of her education.

  She shook out another dress, one of deep blue wool. She always felt pretty when she wore it. Surely that must be one component of a successful seduction. She caught a glimpse of the little silver and emerald tiara in the bottom of her satchel; wearing that embellishment would not be wise in a tavern. But seeing it made her smile.

  Drew had been so forceful with the thieving London innkeeper that, when he returned to confront the man, her cherished possession was promptly restored. He then instructed her to hide the jewelry after their wedding and not bring it out again on their journey. She shook her head at her husband’s words. As if she didn’t know that herself; she had kept her coins safe even in the dungeon of the Tower, had she not?

  The blue gown decided on and donned, Eryn undid her hair and began to brush it. She decided to pull it all in front of her left shoulder and plait it halfway down, to the greatest swell of her bosom. She curled the hip-length bottom locks with the iron fire poker, heated in the flames. The leather thong she used to tie it wasn’t pretty, however.

  If only I had a ribbon…

  She examined all of the contents of her room to no avail. Then she opened the small window, peering into the inn’s back yard below in search of an idea. Nothing.

  She closed the window and sighed. “I will have to rely on my sweet personality and honeyed words, I suppose.”

  That was a frightening thought.

  “Shall I act like the barmaids?” she mused. “Press my breast against my husband’s arm? Grip his thigh—and parts higher—under the table?”

  When she tried to kiss Geoffrey with a little more intent, he accused her of kissing him like a whore. Would the knight think the same thing?

  No. It was Drew who taught her to kiss that way. And then he married her. After waiting until he was thirty to wed, he wouldn’t marry a woman he thought possessed a loose moral character. The deep kissing was safe. And the groping might be necessary. But he shouldn’t complain.

  After all, she was seducing her own husband.

    

  The knock on the door was soft. Drew pulled it open and the scent of soap rushed in on the resultant breeze.

  Eryn stood in the passageway, smiling. “Are you ready, husband?” she purred.

  Purred?

  Drew’s gaze covered her, from the side-braid ending in golden curls cascading off her bosom, to the deep blue of the gown which gave her pale green eyes an unusual tint. Her cheeks bloomed pink as he stared at her.

  He couldn’t help himself; she was stunning. His wife was stunning.

  “Do you need more time?” she asked, and ran her fingers through the loose ends of her hair. It separated into a multitude of ringlets, bouncing against her hip. He ached to do the same.

  “No. I’m ready.” So very ready.

  Shite.

  He pulled the door closed behind him and took Eryn’s arm. As he led her to the stairs, his hand kept bumping against the side of her breast. He glanced down to see if she noticed; apparently she did not.

  Eryn descended in front of him, but stopped to turn and look up at him. From that vantage point he could see the swell of her bosom topping the neckline of her gown. Soft curves of alabaster skin, framed by the ruffle of her linen chemise, and held in restraint by the blue wool.

  “How long will our ride tomorrow be, do you believe?” she asked.

  Why was she asking that now?

  “Half a day,” he answered. “Why?”

  She tilted her head to one side. “I want to be rested when we arrive. I expect there will be much to do once we are finally there.” She laid her palm on his thigh; it felt like a branding iron. And speaking of iron… “Might we lay abed a bit later in the morn?”

  Oh, Lord.

  “I believe that would be fine,” he said carefully. “Now, shall we continue? Or is there more we need to discuss on these rather precarious steps?”

  Her face split into a mischievous grin. “Why husband, just what are you suggesting?”

  She whirled around and hurried down the remaining stairs, leaving him gaping in shock. What was going on? What was she doing? Something was afoot, of that he had no doubt. He clumped down the wooden planks after her.

  Eryn chose a small table, one with only two benches.

  “Would ye no’ prefer to be closer by the fire?” Drew asked.

  “I’m not cold,” she answered. “And as this is the last night of our wedding trip, I only want to be alone with you.”

  “I would no’ call this a wedding trip,” he grumbled, pulling the bench away from the table to sit.

  “No?” Her face brightened. “Will you take me somewhere, then? Perhaps to meet your sister?”

  “Is that what this is about?” he demanded.

&nbs
p; Her expression fell. “What are you talking about?”

  “This trifling ye are doing. Acting like a—an untried lass.”

  “Trifling?” Eryn’s lips pressed together, but not hard enough to hide their tremors.

  Drew knew immediately he had said the wrong thing. “If ye want to meet my sister, I’ll take ye. Ye only have to ask,” he offered.

  “Fine. I’m asking. But that has nothing to do with this night,” she spat. Her eyes glittered wetly in the candlelight.

  He frowned. “What about this night?”

  She crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward. Her gown sagged away from her breasts, which were pushed higher by the fists supporting them. He tried not to look, but there they were, right in front of him. He shoved his hands under his thighs to keep from touching them.

  “You are my avowed husband. This is our last night alone. Tomorrow I must face the charges of murder brought against me, claiming I killed my childhood friend,” she growled.

  Guilt jammed its knuckles deep into Drew’s belly. “About that—”

  “I don’t wish to talk about that tonight!” she cried.

  “But—”

  “Stop!” Her hands escaped from under her bosom and clamped over her ears. She shook her head. “Don’t ruin everything…” she begged. “Please, Drew.”

  Drew smiled softly in acquiescence. He wrapped his fingers around her wrists—noting that all the rawness from the manacles was gone—and tugged her hands away from her ears. Her eyes were wide, and of a color he had never seen before. He kissed one palm, and then the other.

  “What is your wish tonight, Eryn?” he asked. “Ye have only to command this knight. He is your humble servant.”

  She hesitated a moment, then leaned toward him again. “I only wish to be your wife,” she whispered.

    

  Drew didn’t say anything.

  Their supper was served and they ate silently. Eryn forced herself to eat for the sake of the babe, but her husband’s reticence killed her appetite. Well, at least the one for food. For some reason, her desire for his body raged. She felt she might expire if he didn’t come to her soon.

  When the meal was over, the couple retraced their path up the narrow wooden stairs to their rooms. This was her last chance; she needed to take action.

  “Will you come and look at the strap on my satchel?” she asked. “I’m afraid it might be damaged…”

  “Aye.” Drew nodded and followed her into her room.

  She closed the door. “To keep the warmth in,” she said in answer to his raised brow.

  “Where’s the damaged bit?” he asked, glancing around the room.

  Eryn stepped close to him. She lifted his hand and placed his palm over her heart.

  “Here,” she whispered. Then she rose on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.

  Drew’s arms surrounded her and his mouth opened. His kisses tasted of the ale and meat from supper. His tongue tangled deliciously with hers. His arousal pressed against her hip, stoking the flames of her need. She melted against him, feeling the hard bunching of muscle in his chest and thighs. A small whimper escaped her.

  Eryn backed toward her bed and Drew moved with her. His lips traveled down her neck, and his hands moved up from her waist. She tumbled backwards and he fell over her. He kissed the upper bulge of her bosom. Her fingers dove into his thick black curls. He freed her breast from the neckline of her gown and chemise, and ministered to it with his mouth.

  Eryn moaned her pleasure.

  Drew stopped.

  She lifted her head to look into his eyes. His pupils were so dilated only the ring of yellow showed around the black depths.

  “I do no’ have a sheath,” he croaked.

  “You don’t need one!” she cried.

  His expression shifted. He looked to be in very deep pain. “Why not?”

  “I’m your wife,” she pleaded. “Geoffrey never touched me, I swear it.”

  Drew pushed himself from the bed. As he stood, his manhood extended as a tent pole under his tunic. He wanted her as badly as she wanted him; that was exceedingly clear.

  He shook his head. He looked as though he might cry, were he a lesser man than he was. “I’m sorry, Eryn. Forgive me.”

  She watched in stunned silence as he left her room.

  Then she rolled over and burst into tears.

    

  Drew was so angry, he didn’t even want to relieve himself into the fire. He just sat in a chair and waited for his arousal to dissipate. It took a while.

  The thing was, whether his anger was directed at Eryn or at himself, he couldn’t say. All he could be certain of, was that they were a typical pair of stubborn Scots—him by birth and her by acclimation—and the years ahead looked to be rocky. At least they would be if he didn’t succeed in bending her will to his.

  But should her will be bent? Wasn’t one of the things he loved most about her the strength of her convictions? And the lengths she would go to follow them?

  Because he did love her. True, he had not yet told her. But she was the reason he ended his long years of celibacy. The reason he finally married. And the reason he was about to write to King David to ask that Kennan be knighted and share his responsibilities.

  He loved the obstinate, lying, orphan-bastard, sharp-tongued wench with his entire being. He could not imagine his life without her, and he thanked God everyday that she agreed to their marriage. Now that she was irrevocably his, he only needed to smooth over the few falsehoods which held them at arm’s length.

  Or tonight, at cock’s length.

  Damn but he wanted to bed her. She was his wife. She asked him to bed her. Why was that so hard a request? It should not have been.

  But when she mentioned the Cob Constable, he was filled with rage. At that moment, he forgot that was the reason he gave her; the man’s name was like ice water poured over his fire.

  “I said I was afraid he raped her,” Drew grumbled. “Her defense and her pleading were reasonable in that light.”

  He heard her heartbroken wails before he closed his own chamber door.

  Shite.

  Drew stood and crossed his room. They were not leaving until later on the morrow. Perhaps there was enough ale in the tavern’s barrels for him to get good and plaistert.

  At the least, that was his goal.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  March 6, 1355

  Carlisle, England

  Eryn coughed.

  Then she coughed again.

  She opened her eyes and they stung much more than her hours of crying could account for. Smoke. She smelled smoke. She rolled over and looked at her fire, reduced to an orange glow and safely contained in its hearth.

  She clambered from her bed, still dressed in the blue gown. Apparently she had fallen asleep in spite of her brutal distress and disappointment. She stumbled across the dark room and laid her hand against her chamber door.

  She yanked it back.

  The portal was hot. The fire was on the other side.

  “Drew!” she screamed. “Drew!”

  Of course he couldn’t hear her. She screamed his name again even so and the effort burned her throat. Where was he? Was he…

  If she opened the door it would be to her own death. Already the wood was smoking.

  Half-blinded by panic, Eryn lurched toward her satchel and stuffed back into it the few things she pulled out earlier that night. She jammed her feet into her boots, grabbed her cloak, and opened the small window.

  Out went the bag. Out went the cloak.

  Eryn grabbed the sill and hefted herself up. She was on the upper floor. She wiggled one leg through. Turned around to face the room. Balanced on her palms while she wormed the other leg out.

  Flames snuck under the door. She had no choice.

  “Please God! Save Drew!” she gasped.

  She lowered herself to her elbows. Grabbed the sill with one hand. Then the other. Eased back. Held tigh
t. Was hanging from the window.

  She let go and tumbled the remaining eight feet to the yard, landing on her arse.

  “Ouch!” Her right ankle stung. She massaged it. Flexed it. Not broken.

  She felt around her in the moonless night for her cloak, found it, and snuggled into it. Then she widened her splayed-hand search until she hit the leather travel bag.

  Now what?

  She was behind the inn, and all of the buildings along the main road were connected. She would have to run a hundred yards in either direction to get around them and another hundred yards up the road to reach the front of the inn.

  Flames glowed in the window she leapt from. They began to devour the back door. One of the windows on the first floor shattered. Anyone inside that building would be dead by now.

  This was a nightmare of extreme proportions. If it wasn't for her throbbing ankle and the sting of smoke, she might hope to awaken. She screamed Drew’s name again, but knew no one could hear her above the roar of the fire.

  The scream of horses shocked her. The stable was next to the inn and tavern. Rory!

  Eryn looped the perfectly intact strap of her satchel over her shoulder and stumbled to the low stone wall which contained the tavern’s yard. She climbed over it, scraping her shin on the rough rocks. When she reached the stable’s back door, it was barred. From the inside.

  Smoke thickened the air as the tavern’s flames strengthened to light it. She saw sparks falling onto the stable’s roof.

  “Shite! I need to open the door!” she yelped.

  The axe.

  She saw it from the window when she was dressing for supper. Supper with Drew. Where was he?

  Back over the wall. Squint against the smoke. Find the woodpile. Grab the axe.

  Eryn climbed the wall a third time. She ran to the stable door and began to chop at it with all her strength. The axe was heavy, and every stroke jarred her arms and shoulders as if to knock them from her body. Tears streamed down her cheeks; partly from the sting of smoke, and partly from fear for Drew’s life.